


Noblesse Oblige (a 221B)

by SweetLateJuliet



Series: Cardigan Cameos [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Birthday, Costume Parties & Masquerades, F/M, Friendship, M/M, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 22:32:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1581773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetLateJuliet/pseuds/SweetLateJuliet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft always does his duty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Noblesse Oblige (a 221B)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [221BeeMine (mazzer)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazzer/gifts).



Mycroft answered his desk phone. “A matter of national importance, Sherlock?”

“Mrs Hudson said you sent your regrets.”

“And orchids.”

“Nope.”

“I do not attend fancy-dress parties, brother mine.”

“It’s her birthday and your duty. Besides, your DCI will be there.”

“Do. Not,” Mycroft snapped.

 

He wore the Serbian guard uniform.

Mrs Hudson welcomed him in a long-sleeved black dress and lacy white apron and cap. “I’m the housekeeper, dear!” she laughed, brandishing a feather duster.

A lovely Medusa with kohl-rimmed eyes brought Mycroft punch.

“Impressive, Dr Hooper.”

Molly tugged a writhing green braid and whispered, “Pipe cleaners.”

People overlooked her. _Foolish._ It was ridiculous to imagine a rivalry with her.

Nor did he wish to. He owed her Sherlock’s life.

 

DCI Lestrade came as some famous footballer. Mycroft wasn’t alone in eyeing up the inch of exposed quadriceps.

Lestrade’s face lit up when he saw Molly. Mycroft excused himself.

 

They sought him out later, a pocket of quiet in the hubbub.

“Your hat looks… warm,” Greg began.

“Yes.” _Brilliant, Mycroft. Your wit astounds._

“And soft.”

“Yes.” _Pithy! Scintillating!_

“D’you mind?”

_Mind – ?_

Greg touched the mouton above Mycroft’s ear. On the downward stroke his fingers brushed Mycroft’s cheek.

Mycroft coughed.

“Molly, feel this.” Greg pulled her hand to the fur. Medusa giggled.

_Ah. Tipsy._

Mycroft’s empty hand sought an imaginary brolly.

**Author's Note:**

> _Happy birthday 221BeeMine! It's a bit late, and not really fur-hat seduction, and there's no gruff-voiced blue-collar shagging... Here, have the least considerate birthday fic ever, I guess. :) I can only say that I seem to write shagging as the icing on a pining-cake, and now the baking has begun. (Birthdays, Mycroft, and cake: It all comes together in the end.)_


End file.
